Bullseye
by Allycat122
Summary: Teen!Lock. John has gone to St. Barts Camp for Boys to escape his alcoholic father, an apathetic Harry, and the sympathetic glances from those who know too much about his past. Sherlock has been sent to summer camp by Mycroft to have "fun and make new friends." He is convinced this will not be the case. Eventual John/Sherlock. Previously- A Summer of Change
1. Chapter 1

**Hello Everyone! This is my first time writing fanfiction of any sort, and any comments/reviews would be appreciated! As I am from America feel free to tell me any errors that need to be changed to make it right. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any associated characters. **

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><p>John put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, watching Harry's car speed down the gravel road, her wheels throwing up dust. He heard the sharp shout of someone, in vain, trying to get her to slow down before "she hit someone, gosh darn it!" Harry didn't slow down, and she didn't look back.<p>

_Harry never does anything by halves,_ John thought to himself, the car disappearing around a bend. The man who had shouted took a few steps in the direction Harry had gone, shook his head, and tightened his grip on the hand of a young boy at his side. Noticing John and recognizing him as having been with Harry, he shot him a glare as if it had somehow been John's fault that his sister was a reckless driver. John gave the man a half-hearted shrug and a small smile. Realizing that any effort to pacify the angry father would just result in more conflict, John directed his attention to figuring out where to check in.

The entrance to St. Bart's Summer Camp for Boys was filled with people. Parents trailed behind their children, dragging trunks full of all the items necessary for a summer of fun. Boys ran about everywhere, shouting to old friends, hugging counselors they hadn't seen since last summer, and creating an atmosphere of joyous clamor. A group of five or six boys had already started a pick-up game of football in the grassy field to the left of what John could only assume to be the main lodge. It was a large building made of rough unfinished logs. It looked clean and well kempt. There were window boxes full of vibrant yellow and pink flowers, and a cheerful sign out front with arrows pointing to the various camp locations.

John itched to join in their game, but he didn't know any of them, and the boys had obviously been friends for a while. Their easy banter as they kicked and passed the ball was proof to that. Approaching them would be awkward.

_How is it possible for me to be so alone, surrounded by so many happy people? _

Harry wasn't the best of sisters, but John had hoped she would stick around long enough to help him check in and get situated in his cabin. He had realized though that had been a childish hope the second they pulled in. Harry had looked around, a faint expression of annoyance flickering across her features as she took in the camp with all its happy campers streaming in. She had patted him once on the head, said, "Have fun Johnny-boy" and roared off in her silver car, leaving John standing in the parking lot with a second-hand trunk and his beat up red backpack.

Now John was doing his best not to look lost. To look as if he wanted to be alone in this new place. He gripped the handles of his trunk and picked it up grunting slightly as his bad shoulder twinged in protest. Staggering slightly under the weight, John made his way over to a table near the front of the main lodge.

Signs were duct taped to the front of the table dictating where to stand in line to check in. John got in the age 15-17 line and eased his trunk down on its side. In front of him was a dark haired woman in a black suit. She seemed entirely focused on a Blackberry held in her left hand, and as her eyes scanned the screen, a ding went off, and her brows came together in the middle. Whether in anger or confusion John wasn't sure.

The source of the dark haired woman's annoyance was sitting in the shiny black car that had pulled in a few minutes previously. Its occupant was refusing to come out and was now sending messages to her phone.

_This place is dull._

_Everyone here is dull._

_The blonde boy with the red cap is 13 and still sucks his thumb. He has two cats, one gray and one black. He cried when he had to leave them. You expect me to spend my summer with these idiots?_

_The boy with the yellow trunk is showing early symptoms of a cold. He is very contagious. Don't get too close to him._

_The short, stocky one behind you is clearly traumatized. His mother died in a wreck, and he has nightmares at least twice a week. His father and brother are both alcoholics. He is here all by himself, and is trying to look like he doesn't care. He is failing quite miserably in that endeavor. You can see it in the tenseness of his shoulders, and the way his eyes linger on the happy families around him. He is quite lonely. _

_Mycroft just texted. He said that he changed his mind, and for you to drive me home now. _

Anthea read the messages as they came in. The last one she knew to be a complete lie. Mycroft would have texted her if he had changed his mind, but Anthea knew there was no way he would give up his internship to spend the summer with his little brother. The truth of the others though she did not doubt. Just like his older brother, Sherlock had an uncanny ability to observe others and glean information from the smallest of details.

Anthea glanced behind her on the pretense of looking for the source of a particularly loud shout from a group of boys behind her. She allowed her gaze to travel over the short boy behind her for a fraction of a second, and then turned her attention back to her Blackberry.

The boy did have a tense, lonely air about him. His trunk was beat up and looked to have had several previous owners before him; none of them having been too gentle with it. His clothes were clean, but worn – bought from second hand stores probably, or inherited from older siblings. His light brown hair was cut haphazardly, and stuck up crazily in the back. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the toe of his trainer was scuffing the dirt.

While Anthea did not posses the powers of observation that her employer did, she did know how what a lonely child looked like. She had seen it often enough in Sherlock.

Anthea sent Sherlock a return text as she came to the front of the line.

_Be nice Sherlock. By the way, I know Mycroft didn't text you. I'm not an idiot like you seem to think I am. Now get out here before I have to drag you out by your ears. That would be a nice impression to give all the people you are spending the summer with. _

She gave Sherlock a moment or two to read the text, and process the fact that she really was not kidding. Past experiences would have taught him that. She allowed herself a slight smile as two long gawky legs stepped out of the car followed by a long body and an unruly mop of dark brown hair. He crossed around to the back of the car and proceeded to remove his multiple bags.

She checked Sherlock in with a friendly looking counselor, and went to go help remove his trunk from the back of the car.

"I see you decided to finally remove yourself from the car." Anthea said, reaching up to gently tug on Sherlock's ear. He glared at her, and moved away with a jerk

"Well it was getting quite stuffy in there, and at the rate the car was heating up," He glanced down at his watch, "I would have been at low risk for heat stroke in about 10 minutes."

It was true; there was sweat dampening his hair, but they both knew that wasn't the _real _reason Sherlock had decided to get out. Sherlock rather liked his ears attached to his head, and Anthea was quite capable of removing them for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's Chapter 2! Hope Mike and Lestrade are to everyones liking. Review with any comments and/or criticisms :D Enjoy! I do not own Sherlock or any associated characters.**

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

After checking in, and getting directions to his cabin, _Cypress_, John gathered up his belongings and began the long trek up the hill to his residence for the summer.

As a full-timer, the boys who stayed the whole summer, he had been assigned to one of the cabins furthest from the main lodge. Other campers would come and go, but the occupants of that cabin, and one other, named _Birch_, would be there the entire time. John wasn't quite sure of the logic behind putting them as far away as possible. Maybe the counselors thought the full-timers would get used to the long hike after a week or so. John thought this unlikely. His entire body protested from the strain of carrying up his trunk.

Other campers passed him by, sharing the weight of their trunks with their parents. One mother offered to help John, but he waved her away saying he had already made it this far, and there was no point stopping now.

After an indeterminate amount of time, John finally drew up to his cabin. _Cypress _was painted with blue curling letters on a wooden sign stuck in the dirt outside. Like the main lodge down the hill, it was a sturdy looking building made out of rough wood. It appeared to only have one room, plus a small porch in the front. The cabin was set a few meters back into the woods, and a dirt footpath led to the front steps. The door to the cabin was flung wide open, and the chatter of excited voices reached John's ears. He grimaced at the sound of it. Nothing like the happy voices of people familiar with each other to make a newcomer nervous.

John set his trunk down at the beginning of the dirt path, and wiped the sweat from his brow. No reason to walk in looking completely disgusting. A wry grin curled the corners of his lips. At the moment, looking gross was the least of his worries. He had walked into this type of situation enough times to know what was going to happen the moment he walked through that door.

_These boys have probably been coming to camp here together for years. The first few moments are definitely going to be awkward. It doesn't help that I'm obviously one of the last to arrive. My slow ascent up the hill made sure of that… _John rubbed his sore arms ruefully, coming to a decision. _Well standing here thinking about it isn't going to do any good. Come on John, this is nothing you haven't experienced before. _

A short burst of laughter came from the cabin, and for a moment John hesitated, but instead of stopping, he took a deep breath and a step forward.

If a person had been watching John at that exact moment in time, they would have noticed him straighten his shoulders, and tilt his chin back. It was a false look of confidence, but John was a master, and it would take someone very skilled at reading people to see though the façade.

John walked through the door.

All the boys turned to look at him. John paused in the threshold, his hands tightening around the handles on his trunk. There were boys on almost every bunk, and they were all peering at John, sizing up the newcomer. The scrutiny was not unfriendly, but rather curious.

A brown haired boy from a bunk near John must have decided John looked like a nice enough fellow, and shot him a grin, "Looks like you stopped for a swim on the way up mate. Didn't know the swimming pool was open yet." The other boys laughed. A few looked at John rolling their eyes and groaning in mock annoyance at the terrible jest.

John allowed himself to relax, and smiled in return. "Well that's what you get for arriving early. Us latecomers get all the benefits."

The brown haired boy rolled from his bed, stepping lightly to his feet. John could see now that he was quite muscular, a footballer. "I'm Greg Lestrade, most people just call me Lestrade though, and this-"

Before Lestrade could finish he was interrupted by a figure bounding from the back of the cabin. It was a man in his mid 20's. With messy brown hair, a prominent nose, and laughing blue eyes. The nametag around his neck said Levi. He had drawn in a little blue smiley face with a pen. He grabbed John's hand, and began pumping it up and down.

"You must be John! So glad you got here alright! How was the hike up that bloody hill? Miserable right? You'll get used to it though. Actually I take that back. It's a right pain. Nice scenery on the way up, but I hardly think it's worth it" He paused to take a breath. John started to say something, but was immediately interrupted by the onrushing flow of words coming from this exuberant man. "Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself. I'm Levi, your fabulously amazing counselor for the summer, and this is Cypress Cabin!" He made an expansive gesture with the hand not shaking John's, as if inviting John to look at how wonderful the cabin was.

Lestrade looked at John, his eyes twinkling, and mouthed the words, _Just go with it. _

John complied: 6 bunks, room enough for 12 boys, pushed up against the walls, and a door in the back right corner that presumably led to the bathroom. The beds were the only furniture in the cabin, and most were already made up with sheets and blankets. Most of the other boys had gone back to whatever they had been doing before John walked in. They knew how long-winded their counselor could be.

John realized that Levi waiting for him to say something, and that their hands were still clasped together in a handshake. John glanced down, and Levi let go with chuckle, "Not much of a talker eh? That's all right. I more than make up for that."

John managed a smile, feeling a bit overwhelmed. He wasn't sure what to say so he just said, "Yeah. I'm John."

"Well of course you are! Everyone except you and one other kid is here, and you didn't look like much of a Sherlock Holmes to me. So I knew you must be John! Lets get you set up." Levi looked around the cabin. "There's an empty bunk above Mike's, or both the beds in this bunk next to the door are available. I wouldn't recommend that though because the hot air will be blowing in every time the door is opened. Pick whichever you want."

John decided that Levi reminded him of a golden retriever: energetic, easily excited, and eager to please. "Ok Thanks. I guess I will bunk with Mike if that's alright." Even as he spoke the words, Levi was picking up his trunk and depositing it next to a bed in the back of the cabin. John followed at a pace more suitable for moving through a cabin full of boys.

Mike was a short, skinny boy, with large wire-rimmed glasses. As John approached, he removed his glasses, and rubbed them on his shirt sleeve; a shirt that had a wizard on it and the words "That's what I'm Tolkein about." He gave off a definite nerdy aura.

John stuck out his hand, "I'm John."

Mike's face broke into an easy smile and he accepted John's proffered hand, "I'm Mike. Nice to meet you."

John decided that he shouldn't have worried so much. The murmur of half a dozen contented conversations washed over him as he began searching for his sheets and blankets in his trunk. The adrenaline rush that had pumped through his veins when he had first walked through the door had dissipated, leaving him feeling warm and lethargic. Mike was now propped up with a pillow reading a comic of some sort, and he gave John a thumb's up when he caught his glance. John could hear loud laughter coming from near Lestrade's bunk, and Levi's nonstop babble kept up a running commentary.

John had just about finished making his bed – a task that was made much more difficult by his position on the top bunk – when a resounding _thump _came from the front of the cabin. All conversation stopped.

"That bloody hill! It had a gradient of at least fifteen percent. That's just asking for a landslide!" A tall, gangly boy was silhouetted against the sun streaming in from the doorway. He had wild brown hair, and a pale complexion. His trunk – which he had just dropped to the ground, causing the loud thump – was sitting at his feet, and he gave it an uncontrolled kick. "Bloody Mycroft insisting I need to bring all this stuff in order to 'have fun and make new friends.'" His eyes flickered around the room, taking in the sparse furnishings and boys sprawled across the bunks.

The tall boy's eyes met John's, and John felt an icy jolt run down his spine. This boy could see his darkest secrets, knew his worst fears. He could see _through _John to all the things hidden deep inside. Then his gaze moved on, and John felt as if he had been suddenly released from a paralyzing hold.

John slumped back against the wall, and looked around wondering if anyone else had experienced the same moment of exhilarating terror as he had. All he could see though was the slacked-jaw expressions of the purely astonished.

The tall boy let out a scoffing laugh. "Not that I will be finding any of those worth my time here."

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><p><strong>Our two favorite boys have finally met! Mwahahaha! I have some of the plot worked out, but let me know if you think of anything you would like to see them do. Summer camp should be interesting for these two. Also, please leave a review with any comments or criticisms. I will love them all!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Here's Chapter 3! Let me know what you think :)**

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

John couldn't sleep.

Nor could he move. Every slight adjustment of his position created noises that were magnified by the stillness in the cabin. A slight shift was the rustle of bedclothes, the squeak of the mattress, or worse yet, the grating of metal from the bed itself.

The last boy must have fallen asleep at least an hour ago. As each of them had drifted off, John's feeling of anxiety had increased. The silence of being around so many sleeping people, each of them lost in their own world of dreams, was suffocating.

John had tried every sleeping technique in the book. Counting sheep was a failure. The sheep had just kept jumping, faster, and faster, and faster, until John's pulse was racing, and his eyes shot open from the panic. Equally disastrous was counting backwards. He was so worried that he would get to zero before he fell asleep, that the calming effects of the exercise were completely negated. Eventually he had just gone back to staring at the ceiling and trying not to move.

John remembered now hearing once that the best way to fall asleep was to think about one moment from your day. To build up from something basic, gathering all the small details and holding them in your mind's eye. He searched back through his day for the most striking memory. Was it his father, hungover, not even bothering to wake up to say good-bye, or was it Harry leaving without a backwards glance? These thoughts though were far from soothing; they were rough and chafed against John's emotions. He needed something happy, something calming. Maybe then it was the moment he had walked into the cabin, expecting to be excluded, but instead being welcomed with smiles and laughter.

John closed his eyes, but he did not see his new cabin of friends. Instead there was something more powerful; Sherlock Holmes. When John concentrated, reaching back for the most vivid image of his day, all he felt was the exhilarating terror of Sherlock's gaze. Those brilliant eyes were so full of cold contempt, and yet there was something deeper, a sparkling current, like the ocean frozen under the ice. They were transfixing, and John couldn't escape even within the confines of his own mind. No matter what memory John tried to picture, those eyes always appeared. He pushed back further and further, grasping at the tendrils of half forgotten memories, traveling down dark avenues full of shadowy figures, and searching for something, anything, more powerful than the gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

Nothing worked until unknowingly John opened a locked room in his mind; a room full of the suppressed images of a dark night a year ago. They came rushing forward now, all those images that John had carefully locked away, only to be visited in his nightmares. A swirling maelstrom of sensations and images. All fighting to be seen and noticed. A phantom pain seized John's shoulder, ripping and tearing at the flesh, and he sat up with a cry of pain. His eyes flashed open, staring at the dark around him, but seeing only the memories of his past.

John's breath came now in ragged gasps. He reached a hand up to his shoulder, fully expecting to feel blood seeping between his fingers, but instead encountering only his sweat soaked t-shirt. Not real then, they had been only memories, nightmares really. John lowered himself down to his pillow and fought to control his breathing. All around him his new friends lay sleeping, oblivious to the terror that had just consumed him.

John normally only experienced those memories while asleep, in terrifying nightmares that left him exhausted. But with the opening of that locked room, John now allowed himself to think of the real reason why he couldn't sleep. It had been floating in his subconscious all night, noticed but ignored. John was frightened. Yes, John Hamish Watson was scared. Not scared of the dark, or scared of the stirring animals outside. He was scared of himself. He was afraid that when he closed his eyes and let himself drift into oblivion that the nightmares would come. The nightmares of the accident that had killed his mother. And John knew all too well that when the nightmares came no one in his cabin would be peacefully asleep any more.

They would see John for the broken, fraying human that he was. And that was why John had come to camp. To avoid the sympathetic glances from those who knew too much about his past. He had wanted to get away from that, and make new friends who didn't know the source of his raw throat and dark circled eyes. A nightmare now would ruin everything.

John stifled the urge to beat against the wall in frustration. He sat up in bed, pulled the sweaty sheet down, and ran a hand over his eyes. Obviously laying in bed was getting him nowhere. Maybe some fresh air would do him good. And anyways, finally letting himself acknowledge his fears was going to cause a sleepless night. John sighed, the noise traveling across the cabin. Putting one leg over the railing, he climbed down, grimacing with every creak and groan of the metal bed frame. Despite the noise sounding unbelievably loud in his ears, no one in the cabin stirred.

John's feet touched the ground, and he padded barefoot across the cabin, sidestepping the various bags strewn across the floor. He glanced back once and saw Mike sleeping on the bunk beneath his. His back was to the wall, and he had an arm flung across his body, fingertips dangling over the edge. His breathing was deep and peaceful, and John felt a moment of jealousy. Mike just looked so… _innocent._

Dismissing the thought with a shake of the head, John opened the door to the cabin, stepping out into the warm summer night air. He started moving towards a bench against the wall of the cabin intending to sit and let his mind calm when his thoughts were interrupted by a deep, baritone voice.

"An insomniac, or someone scared of their own imagination?"

John started, eyes searching the dark for the source of the words.

"hmmmm… the latter I believe. Yes, I remember you now. Standing behind Anthea in line. I said then that you were traumatized. Haunted by the images of your mother's death. I see now that I was correct. As only to be expected I suppose."

John saw him now. Sherlock was leaning against one of the support posts of the cabin. His dark hair tousled by the faint wind, and a faint smile highlighted by the moon.

Sherlock must have followed John's line of sight for he now said, "Waxing gibbous. Should be full in a few days time. The moon causes the tides you know." John said nothing, and Sherlock did not seem to expect him to. "Amazing though that something so far way can have such a profound affect on something we humans perceive to be so vastly large. Of course it can all be explained using angles and gravity. Logic can explain anything if used by the right mind."

John was confused by this shift in Sherlock's personality. Earlier he had been all sharp words and lightening quick deductions.

But now Sherlock seemed quiet, introspective even. It was as if he knew John was standing a few feet away, but he wasn't really aware of his presence. He looked as though he were lost in his own thoughts.

John spoke now, moving to sit on the bench furthest from Sherlock's leaning form. "How did you know, Sherlock? How did you know about the nightmares?"

"It's all there to see, if only you know where to look."

"That's not much of an answer."

"Is it not? I think so." Sherlock said nothing more, and John did not press him for answers.

John leaned back against the wall, letting his muscles relax. He found that he was not angry that Sherlock knew about the nightmares. Somehow he knew that the taller boy would not tell anyone. Mostly because Sherlock did not seem to be interested in other people, other than to make fun of them, and show off his intelligence. John's thoughts drifted back to the moments after Sherlock had first entered the cabin.

Levi had received the brunt of Sherlock's insults, as could only be expected. John remembered the hurt on Levi's face. It was obvious to everyone that Sherlock had managed to hit him just where it would cause the most pain. Sherlock had made some disparaging comment about the source of Levi's limitless happiness. Something about the harmful words of others, and Levi's need to make others happy in order to feel joy himself.

The mood of the cabin had been altered the moment Sherlock walked in, and not in a positive way. Glances had been exchanged between the boys, and eyebrows raised in questioning looks. Who was this boy, and how did he know so much? Eventually everyone had just come to the mutual silent agreement to ignore Sherlock and his strange comments, and Sherlock had fallen silent.

Now though John was confused, where had the boy of this afternoon gone? Because this figure leaning against the cabin support was certainly not him. Was this boy some sort of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Thoughts and hypotheses swirled through John's head, erasing the last vestiges of fear and anxiousness from his time laying awake in the cabin.

Meanwhile Sherlock stood immobile, his face an impenetrable mask. The silence grew, but John said nothing. This silence was calming, unlike the stifling atmosphere of the cabin.

Eventually Sherlock came and sat on the stairs. Even a genius has limits as to how long their legs can support their body weight.

How long the two of them remained like that John had no idea. Him on the bench, and Sherlock on the stairs. Sherlock did not even seem to remember that John was there.

Eventually John found that the idea of sleep was quite appealing, rather than the opposite. He rose to his feet, staggering a bit from the lack of circulation that comes from sitting in the same spot for too long. Yes, sleeping sounded good now, and John had the peculiar feeling that tonight there would be no nightmares. He would only get a few hours, but that was better than nothing.

Sherlock did not look up as John slowly made his way to the door. His hands were pressed together at the fingertips, and the index finger was lightly touching his lower lip. The position was one that conveyed deep thought.

John reached out for the doorknob when Sherlock spoke.

"Might want to massage those legs. I imagine they are hurting a bit from poor circulation." Sherlock did not even turn around.

"Er, ah, yeah thanks Sherlock I will." John paused with his hand on the door.

"Goodnight John."

"Night Sherlock."

John went in the cabin, leaving Sherlock sitting in the exact same position. That night he didn't have a single nightmare.

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><p><strong>And there it is! Hope everyone enjoyed. Please leave a review and let me know your thoughts. Any questions or suggestions would be great! :)<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four! Woooo! Enjoy everyone!**

**Disclaimer: As always, I do not own Sherlock or any associated characters. A fangirl can dream though, right?**

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

The first breakfast at camp was uneventful, and now _Cypress _cabin was going swimming.

John had read up on all the activities when he decided to come to camp here. He wasn't thrilled about arts and crafts, but it was swimming he was dreading.

The website had read:

_St. Barts is home to both a pool and a beautiful natural lake. Campers will have the opportunity to go swimming at least four times a week in their DRA's. (Daily Rotational Activities) The lake is home to "The Blob" - part trampoline, part catapult, this lake activity is a favorite, and campers of all ages look forward to their turn. _

Since the accident, John had avoided swimming, but it was unavoidable now. John silently cursed his bad luck.

The other boys were thrilled that they got to be the first to go swimming. After breakfast they all rushed back up to the cabin to change and grab towels, and stories of past years were exchanged as they got ready to go.

Before the accident, John would have joined in, telling them about how he loved to swim. The water was one of the few places John had felt free. Lying at the bottom of the pool, with the water surrounding his body and protecting him, John had been able to relax. The light reflecting through the water twisted in fantastic shapes that caught his imagination and erased his worries. It had been liberating, calming.

He would stay under until his lungs burned and his body screamed for air, then he would come bursting to the surface spraying water droplets in every direction. In his memories, as John came up for air, with water streaming down his face and his hair plastered against his forehead, there was a gentle lilting laugh. A laugh that now sent a wrench of grief tearing through John's gut.

A shuddering breath forced itself from between John's lips, and he dropped his head into his hands. Moisture leaked from the corners of his eyes. Why was it still so painful? When would he be able to live a normal life, without these moments of unexpected weakness?

The laughing voices of the boys in his cabin penetrated John's thoughts, and John felt a moment of anger directed towards them and their happiness. They were all so lucky.

It was too soon for swimming. There was too much to hide now. A scar that disfigured and pained him, inside and out. It was just too soon.

A weight sank into the bunk next to John. He ignored it, head still in hands, hoping against all reason, that whoever it was would just go away.

A hesitant hand touched his shoulder. "John. Are you alright, mate?" The voice belonged to Mike. Well, if it had to be someone to see him like this, Mike was not the worst option.

John waited a moment, but the weight did not move, so he nodded, removing his hands as he did so, and wiping the wetness from his face. "mhmm… Just something in my eye is all." He scrubbed at his eyes as if rubbing out a piece of dust, but the excuse was a weak one, and he knew Mike would see right through him.

Mike's eyes studied his face, as if searching for something. John stared at his hands, wondering if Mike would call him on his lie. "Yeah. That's always a pain. Makes you look like you've been crying or something." Mike offered John a comforting smile. "If you're sure you're alright, I guess that's good then. You do look a bit pale though." Giving John a second chance to talk if he wanted to.

John didn't want anyone here to know. He was trying to get away from his past, so opening up to Mike was not an option. He forced himself to give a small, mirthless laugh. "Ah well, you know. New place, not much sleep. Just a bit tired is all. Anyways, swimming has never been my favorite."

"Well, if you're sure then." Mike did not look convinced. "I know I haven't known you long, but you can talk to me whenever. We are bunkmates after all."

John nodded in thanks, partially admitting to the fact that something really was wrong, but fully deciding in that moment not to let anyone at St. Barts ever know.

"I guess you are not the only one looking a little off today." Mike said, nodding his head in the direction of the door. John, more than happy to change the subject followed the movement to see Sherlock. He was sitting on the top bunk, eyes closed and head tilted back against the wall, exposing a strip of pale white flesh above his collared shirt. Gangly legs clothed in dark dress pants were sprawled across a navy blue comforter and shiny black shoes were dangling off the edge. Odd attire for a summer camp.

"Then again," Mike added. "I think he always looks that way."

Sherlock's hands were positioned in front of his face in the odd thinking pose John had seen last night. They hadn't talked since; Sherlock hadn't even shown up for breakfast. John wondered what Sherlock had done while they had all been gone. Probably sat there and read. The boy was obviously a genius.

"He's certainly an odd character isn't he?" John agreed.

"I think he's one of those genius types," Mike said, echoing John's thoughts. "I mean, I guess I'm smart, make good grades and such, but he's different. I can just tell. The other guys, they aren't sure what to think of him. After he barged in here, acting all arrogant and insulting, I think they decided just to give him his space. I have to admit though, it was a bit amusing to see Lestrade looking so shocked." Mike laughed quietly. John smiled in memory of the tall boy's dramatic entrance.

"I tried to approach him this morning," Mike said. "But he completely dismissed me. Said he had no use for 'people like me'. I guess he doesn't want friends, and I don't think it's going to be worth anyone's effort to even try. If he's trying to intimidate us though it's not working. No one's impressed."

"Sherlock's a mystery all right." John said with a nod. For some reason John couldn't explain at that moment, he didn't tell Mike about the night before. It seemed like a secret somehow. Like Sherlock had let John see a different side of him, and that to tell Mike would be to betray his trust. It was irrational John knew, but it made sense its own way.

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><p>Water lapped against the dock as John watched the boys of <em>Cypress <em>Cabin play on the blob. The website hadn't lied; they were certainly having a lot of fun.

When John had first sat down on the pier to watch, all the boys had tried to cajole him into getting in. They had jokingly made fun of him, bribed him with their extra dessert, and several even tried to push him in. John though claimed exhaustion, from a long trip to camp the previous day and a lack of sleep the night before. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth, and John wasn't sure what he was going to use as an excuse the next time. He had two days to think of something.

Eventually the boys had given up, casting him curious glances as they swam away. Mike sat with John for a few minutes, but eventually asked John if he would mind sitting by himself for a while. John had told him to go ahead, and to not miss out on the fun on his behalf. Mike had stripped off his shirt, revealing a torso that was just as skinny as the rest of him, looked closely at John to make sure he really was alright, and jumped in. He hadn't been back since.

The truth was, just sitting this close to the lake was hard for John. Echoes of his past burst into his thoughts, and John had to push them out. He pulled on the hem of his shirt, as if to ensure that it was still there, covering the truth that he was not ready to reveal. Probably never would be ready.

Slowly, lulled by the warm sun on his back and the sound of dock creaking beneath him, John relaxed. Rather than gaze out at the lake, he stretched out full on his back and threw an arm across his eyes, blocking out the light. As long as he didn't have to get in the water, he could manage the lake. It was just a few days a week for a few hours. He would be fine.

It was ten, maybe fifteen minutes later when John felt a presence looming over him, but in his drowsy, comfortable state he was loath to move his arm and open his eyes. The presence persisted though. With a groan, John sat up blinking in the sudden shift to brightness.

When his eyes had adjusted enough to see without being blinded, he looked up and was unsurprised to see the lanky form of Sherlock standing beside him and observing the boys of _Cypress _Cabin play on the blob. Somehow Sherlock must have heard John move, for he spoke now in his rich baritone voice.

"I have just been informed, by our idiotic counselor Larry, or whatever his name is." Sherlock waved an arm through the air. "That attendance of all camp activities is mandatory, and that I am expected to be present for all of them." Sherlock looked positively appalled by this idea, and he continued talking, condescension dripping from every word. "I really don't see the point when I could be accomplishing so much more reading inside. My book on quantum mechanics was a bit elementary, but it was at least more entertaining than watching this pathetic lot jump up and down on a sac of air looking like a bunch of hooligans."

John couldn't help it. He let out a snort of laughter and once he started, he couldn't stop. He bent over his knees trying to stifle his mirth, and when he finally got control of himself, he looked up to see Sherlock standing stiffly above him.

"I'm sorry Sherlock." John managed to get out without relapsing into laugher. "Its just you, you looked so serious standing there in your dark clothes, that when you starting talking about hooligans jumping on sacs of air, I just couldn't stop myself. You just sounded so silly." John grinned up at Sherlock, expecting to see Sherlock nodding in understanding as any normal human would, but instead the expression on his face could only be described as one of hurt.

"And I'm sorry for thinking you could possibly be any different than the group of idiots down there." Sherlock spat out. "Look at the stupid genius. Laugh at him. He doesn't know how the real world works. He's so _silly_." Sherlock glared at John and spun on his heel.

John scrambled to get up. "Wait, Sherlock!" He yelled after the tall boy's retreating figure. "I wasn't trying to offend you! I didn't mean to hurt you! What do you mean, I'm different than them?" John took a few steps after Sherlock, but stopped as he heard his next words.

"You're not." Sherlock tossed over his shoulder. "And you didn't hurt me. I am Sherlock Holmes, and no one has that power."

John watched until Sherlock's angry form disappeared down a bend in the path.

He was confused. So very confused. Sherlock had thought he was different than everyone else? But they had hardly even spoken to each other. Just that once the night before. How had Sherlock decided that he was different? He certainly wasn't more than average intelligence.

Maybe Sherlock's bored mind was just intrigued by his confused past. John certainly was a bit of a mystery, but, no, that couldn't be right. Surely, there were lots of people out there with pasts more interesting his own, and Sherlock had spoken like John was some sort of exception. But he wasn't. His was just the simple story of a traumatized boy haunted by his own memories.

And whatever Sherlock had just said, John did not believe that he hadn't just hurt him. He hadn't meant to, and he wasn't sure how, but Sherlock had definitely been hurt by his laughter. _Look at the stupid genius_, Sherlock had said. _He doesn't know how the real world works. _

So that was it. Sherlock had probably revealed more to John in those words than he had meant to. John imagined Sherlock as a child, excluded and alone. Not understanding why the other children didn't like him, and trying so hard to fit in. He must have sealed himself off; shut down his emotions and locked them away.

And then he had met John and decided that John was different. Had decided to come down and talk to John. There was no doubt that he could have convinced Levi that he should be allowed to stay in the cabin, so coming down to the dock was a choice. He must have known somehow that John wouldn't be swimming.

Sherlock had tried to talk to John, and what did John do? He laughed like all those children had before, and that fragile decision where Sherlock had decided to try once more to make a friend was shattered to pieces, and it had hurt him, and John had caused it.

But that just brought John back to his original question: why did Sherlock think he was different? He supposed now that he had driven off the reluctant advances of the broken boy, he would never have the opportunity to find out. And why was Sherlock's pain causing himself so much pain right now? They hadn't even been friends, so why was John so worried about the fact that he had hurt him. It made no sense.

And now who knows where Sherlock had disappeared off to. The thought made John nervous and he had half a mind to follow the boy, but something made him stop. Sherlock would probably want to be alone right now. To shut down his emotions again, and lock them away.

John realized though that he didn't want that to happen. He didn't want to let this boy he had just met hide away his emotions never to be seen again. He had caused Sherlock pain, and at that moment John decided that he would fix it, no matter the cost to himself.

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><p><strong>Hope you liked it! Please, please, please leave a review with any thoughts, questions, or criticisms. :) They make me happy. <strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for ****_very_**** long update time. I had actually entirely given up when I read a review from a reader asking me to continue. Thank you for that. I had forgotten how much fun it was. **

**Enjoy! :)**

**As usual, I do not own Sherlock or any associated characters. **

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><p>Chapter 5<p>

Where could Sherlock have possibly gone?

It seemed as though John had checked everywhere. The tennis courts, football field, swimming pool. Laughing boys everywhere, but no Sherlock. John didn't even know what he was gong to say to Sherlock when he did finally find him. He figured he would start by apologizing and go from there.

John even made the long trek up to the cabin, but the only person in there was Levi.

Levi looked up from writing in what seemed to be a journal. John wasn't sure, but it seemed a bit of red crept up Levi's cheeks as he shooed John out of the cabin, admonishing him for not being down at the lake with the other boys. John just managed to ask if Levi had seen Sherlock before the door was shut. The answer had been in the negative. So, he hadn't been back to the cabin then.

John pushed the incident to the back of his mind to be examined later.

Now there was only one place left to check. John had almost forgotten about it because it was quite a distance from all the other camp activities.

The archery range was located off a trail that began behind the main lodge. Nicknamed Kent's Hollow, for a previous camper at St. Barts and its location in a shadowed clearing, the archery range seemed almost separate from the rest of the camp. Listed as a DRA, but not one of the popular choices, the Hollow had gained a small group of very devoted boys. They tended to sit in the corner at meals and glare menacingly at the lower camp boys. The archery counselor, Fletch, was a strange fellow, rarely coming down for meals and keeping odd hours. Or so Lestrade had told John this morning at breakfast.

"I once heard that Fletch isn't really a person at all." Lestrade had said leaning in and almost putting an elbow in his syrup. "But a vampire."

"Oh, come off it Lestrade." Mike said. "Everyone knows he is an ex-spy. Living at St. Barts because none of his old enemies would suspect him to be teaching teenage boys archery at a summer camp."

"Ah yes that makes much more sense Mike. An ex-spy at St. Barts." Lestrade said laughing.

"Well more sense than a vampire. What does he do? Lure people in with his uncanny shooting speed and then suck their blood?"

"Yeah, that's what he does. He wraps his bow around their necks, and then pulls them in, bringing his fangs closer, closer, closer…" Lestrade made his eyes grow larger with each word.

"And then bam! You're a vampire!" Lestrade shouted, bringing his hands down with a thud onto the table. The people at tables near them looked up, and then seeing Lestrade had caused the disturbance as usual, they went back to eating their pancakes.

John was beginning to suspect conversations like these were normal when you were around Lestrade. He wasn't complaining though. It was nice to have friends.

Vampire counselor or not, John hoped Sherlock would be at Kent's Hollow because there was nowhere else left to check. Unless he had ventured into the woods and then John had no chance of finding him.

As John drew closer to the Hollow, he became aware of a deep thrum and then a subsequent thud. Someone was definitely here.

The turn off for Kent's Hollow was marked by an arrow embedded into a tree trunk, and a sign post that John supposed must have at one point read "Kent's Hollow", but now only the T and half the W remained. Trying to block out illogical thoughts of vampires, John turned onto the path, reaching a hand out to touch the end of the arrow.

And stumbled directly into someone's chest.

"Sorry!" John gasped, throwing his arms out to try to restore his balance.

A hand grabbed onto John's shoulder and managed to catch him before he fell. The second John had righted himself the person took their hand away. Almost as thought they had been burned.

"Next time just look where you're going. As if _one_ annoying kid weren't enough today. " The were words were spat at John.

John looked up to see someone who had to be this Fletch character Mike and Lestrade were talking about at breakfast. And he did look like a vampire.

Pale skin, very pale. With hooded eyes and an angular nose. His hair a dark red, long and brushing his shoulders. He was dressed all in black except for a gold necklace chain that was tucked into his collar. His right hand was holding a leather case that John could only assume was carrying his bow. Honestly, he was a little bit frightening.

John stuck out a hand. "I'm John Watson. Nice to meet you."

Fletch just looked at him. "John? "

"Yes, sir. That is my name." John's hand was showing no signs of dropping.

"Ah, a crazy kid just went down to the Hollow. Dark hair, weird clothes. You know him?"

John nodded his assent. Sherlock.

"He was mumbling stuff. Your name came up quite a bit. Don't know what you did to piss him off, but that kid shoots like a fiend. I would try not to get in front of him. He looks angry enough that he just might shoot you." Fletch's smile did not look very concerned for John's safety.

Fletch turned with a wave of his hand. "Well, best of luck. I'm off to get some breakfast." He started off down the path.

"Um, thank you." But Fletch was already out of earshot. John's hand came to rest beside his leg. If Sherlock's shooting was cause enough to make a man like Fletch leave the Hollow, John wondered if going back might be for the best. But no, he knew he would never do that. Forward and onward was the only option.

The path down to the Hollow was densely wooded. John put an arm up to ward off the unfriendly branches whipping across his face. Thorns caught at his shorts and scratched his exposed claves. Sweat was dripping down into his eyes.

The sound of arrows smacking into targets was growing with every step

_Thrum-thwack_

He exited the woods, blinking in the sudden sunlight. And there was Sherlock. Shooting a longbow. With quite some anger it seemed.

Arrow after arrow was thudding into the targets. At a very alarming speed. John paused mid-step, hand still holding onto a thin tree branch.

There was a quiver slung across Sherlock's back. John watched as his hand reached back, plucked out an arrow without looking, nocked it to the string, and shot all in the space of a single heartbeat. And with deadly accuracy. John did not fail to notice that all arrows were either in the bull's-eye or the ring right outside.

_Thrum-thwack_

Sherlock's angular features were drawn into an expression of intense concentration, and his body was as tight as the bowstring sending his arrows streaking across field. His movements were almost like a dance as he shot arrow after arrow into the targets, pivoting to alternate targets after every shot.

John was standing diagonally behind Sherlock with a clear view of Kent's Hollow. It really wasn't all that much. Just a rather large clearing in the woods with targets placed at different heights and distances. Targets that were being murdered by Sherlock's arrows.

John wondered how anyone could even think that fast, and then he realized that Sherlock wasn't thinking. He was shooting based purely on muscle-memory. How many arrows must he have shot over his lifetime to be that good?

Sherlock reached into his quiver, pulled out the last arrow and sent it into the farthest target. _Thrum-thwack. _ Bull's-eye. He did not reach back for another arrow.

For a moment Sherlock stood appraising his work, and after a small nod he moved forward to retrieve his arrows.

John decided that if he was going to approach this angry archer the best time would be while he did not have any arrows.

"Sherlock!" John called out, talking a few quick steps forward. "Can I talk to you?"

Sherlock froze. Shoulders drawn up and hands curled into fists.

"John. Why have you followed me here?" Sherlock's voice was cold. He did not turn around.

"To apologize." John took a step forward. Sherlock's hand shot up, stopping him in his tracks.

"Don't come any closer John. I do not wish to bother myself with unnecessary drivel. Or idiots. You think that you are some how different. You are not. You are a useless person just like the rest of the people at this camp."

Sherlock turned around to face John now, and John was started by the pure look of hatred on the other's boys face. John took a step back now, repelled by the pure force of Sherlock's gaze.

"But last night, out on the porch?"

Sherlock made a scoffing noise. "You see, what happened last night out on the porch was an anomaly. I was thinking, and I do not register outside stimuli while deep in thought. I did not even know you were there. If I appeared kind or accepting it was only by happenstance."

John knew this wasn't true. He remembered that as he had stood up, Sherlock had wished him goodnight. Sherlock had been in his thinking pose and then he had clearly said, "Goodnight John." John wasn't an idiot, but he did remember that. Strange comment from someone who supposedly hadn't been aware of John's presence.

What was Sherlock playing at? Then John thought back to the scene at the lake and his laughter at the odd boy's word choice. Ah, that was it then. He really had hurt Sherlock. Sherlock's blatant lie just then made that very clear. He was trying to pretend he had never even thought he could reach out to someone else. Retreating.

It was this thought that caused John say and do what he did next. He walked towards Sherlock. Sherlock did nothing to stop him. John stopped a few paces away.

"Don't be afraid Sherlock." It was as if John had lit some new sort of bomb that burned with a black light and was very menacing. So not like a bomb at all. More like a teacher that is so angry she can't even yell. Yes that was it.

"Afraid?' Sherlock's voice was soft. Dangerously so. "I, John, am not the one who is afraid. I know what I am. And I am not afraid. Especially not from someone like you." Sherlock leaned forwards. "But you?" His finger thrust towards John's chest. Yes, you John are very afraid. Afraid of your own shadow. Of the water in the lake. Or possibly the idea of the water. You are afraid of your past. I can see it. I see everything."

John refused to be cowed by Sherlock's looming frame. "Sherlock, I just-" He began.

"No!" The word was a shout. "I don't want to hear your contradicting declarations. Why did you even follow me here John? What are you hoping to gain? We don't even know each other. Anyone who pursues me always wants something. So, what do _you _want?" The question was left hanging in the air.

What did he want? John didn't know what he wanted here, but it certainly wasn't to be insulted by someone he was trying to apologize to.

"What I wanted was to come and apologize for laughing at you." John was working hard to maintain his composure. "That was all I wanted. I walked all the way over here Sherlock just to say that I am_ sorry!" _

Sherlock turned away, removing arrows from the first target. When he turned back around his expression could not even be called an expression. It was completely blank.

"I do not accept your apology because what you did had no affect in my life." Sherlock said. John had a hard time following that logic.

"Furthermore, I do not have friends." Sherlock declared. "That is what you want from me John. I can see that. You want to be friends." The word "friend" was spoken as though it were a word dredged up the bottom of a very disgusting swamp.

"Actually," John said. "I do not want to be friends with you Sherlock. You are wrong. I am sorry for ever thinking otherwise. Actually, no. I'm not sorry. You do not accept apologies."

With that, John turned around and walked away.

Right before John reached the path, an arrow slammed into a tree trunk. Narrowly missing his head.

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><p><strong>Hope you all liked it! If you can, leave me a review with your thoughts and suggestions. :)<strong>


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